


Worthy of a Troubadour

by Skraeling



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Like wtf season four ended so badly, M/M, Magic, Narnia References, Narnia and Fillory are pretty similar huh, Post-Season/Series 04, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Reincarnation, Yeah Quentin isn't staying dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skraeling/pseuds/Skraeling
Summary: Quentin determined to get back to his friends- hisfamily- manages to escape into an afterlife not meant for him and persuade Hel to reincarnate him. If his friends can work out how to restore a shade or bring all of magic back, they can surely restore lost memories?________________________________________________________________________________________________________________After his first hospitalisation at 16, Quentin Coldwater not-so-reluctantly allows Julia and his dad to convince him to go to Oxford University for his undergraduate degree, to get a new perspective on life. In the hallowed halls, Quentin sets out on a quest to find new worlds, determined to find something that he knows that he has lost but cannot remember what it is. On his quest, he meets Will- a man determined to reach his love lost to another world and Susan, a woman trying to make up for the mistakes of her past. Together can they find the worlds they are looking for without ripping a hole in the fabric of reality?A non-magical AU determined to bring Quentin Coldwater back to life.
Kudos: 1





	Worthy of a Troubadour

**Author's Note:**

> Seeing as the Magicians is now cancelled and Quentin won't be coming back, I thought that I'd deal with my feelings by bringing him back. Many more talented people have written realistic season 5s so I went all-in with AUs of AUs- inspired heavily by [The Ivory Horn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/84577). I'm still on a His dark Materials kick after the new BBC adaptation so I'm adding that in and my other childhood favourite fantasy series, the Chronicles of Narnia. I've only got the prologue written but I've got everything planned out- I've written about 5000 words of academic writing in the past week so I'm pretty sure I can write 1000 words a week for the next few months

Quentin looks down at the card in his hand, it’s the same size as the gift cards he would receive for every birthday, every Christmas and often in between. Few people really wanted to buy 18-year-olds practical magic sets- some had tried, but those tended to be cheap things for children, the type of set he grew out of when he was six, so he quietly donated them. Gift vouchers for books were a good compromise- his relatives could at least pretend to themselves that they would be spent on something useful. He’s lost in that memory for a while, staring at it for a long moment.

Despite breathing being now entirely redundant, Quentin draws in a deep breath. One last time, he turns to look at Penny. He’s not ready, at all, but he supposes that this was what he needed to do. At least he hoped it was. If he could still feel pain, the metro card would have likely be cutting into his palm hard- perhaps even cutting the skin. Tentatively he steps forward through the doorway. 

Suddenly, he’s on a subway platform, but not the type that he’s ever seen before. The tiles are pristine white; even the grout between is smooth and pale like it had just hardened. Cool air circulates around his legs, soft and gentle- just the barest, comforting touch- which isn’t really needed because it’s the perfect temperature. There are perhaps two dozen people on the platform. All of them look tired- weary to the bone- and at least half of them have tear-streaked faces, sobbing or laughing shakily every so often. 

At the very end of the platform, Quentin spots a face; from the angle, he only half recognises it- could it be? Lurching forward, he starts down the platform towards the person. Closer up, he can see that it’s a kid, maybe ten or twelve, with brown curly hair- it looks like it might be. Moving faster, Quentin pushes past the other people on the platform. None of them pays him any more heed than a cursory glance, too busy processing their grief or relief to pay any attention to him. Halfway down the platform, Quentin can recognise the boy properly.

“Teddy,” Quentin calls out, reaching, desperately, for the son that never was. Teddy turns to him, a grin broad across his round face; it’s Elliot’s grin, wide and uninhibited. He waves him over emphatically, then jumps down off of the platform, dashing away into the dark. Quentin doesn’t hesitate, following Teddy off the platform into the dark.

For some strange reason, Quentin’s paternal instincts don’t kick into force. There’s no overwhelming urge to scoop Teddy up and out of danger, no urge to chastise him for running on train tracks. Perhaps it’s because they’re both dead, or maybe because he’s so overwhelmed with relief. His biggest fear, once regaining his memories (both times) was that he’d never see Teddy again- does a person who has only existed in a timeline that doesn’t exist anymore still count as a life lived? Apparently it does, because there he is, his wonderful, perfect little boy, is running in front of him in the dark of the tunnel. Quentin is also a little surprised- Teddy hates the dark; he’d never go out past dusk and always insisted that they had a fire or an oil lamp in the cottage, no matter the time of year or how hot it was. 

Teddy laughs then ducks off the main tunnel, into a side tunnel that’s only as wide as Quentin’s arm span. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t keep up with Teddy, although it’s not surprising- Teddy had always been faster than him, only Elliot, with his ridiculously long legs, could catch him when he was in this sort of mood; Quentin used to laugh himself breathless watching them run around, Teddy squealing in delight when Elliot caught him, swinging him high up into the air, blowing raspberries. He and Elliot would lock gazes sometimes- Quentin had never loved him more than in those moments. 

Quentin isn’t sure how long or how far they run for- he isn’t at all winded and his legs feel just a good as when he started running, if not more. The tunnel has been gradually sloping down for a while now, leading him ever deeper into the Underworld. Somewhere the bricks and concrete floors give way to hard-packed earth and sand with glittering patches of mica jutting out of the earth every so often. Pillars made of age-darkened wood support the ceiling- like in old mines, but these are covered in intricate carvings of animals, people and elaborate patterns. In amongst this Quentin spots writing out of the corner of his eye. He thinks it might be the Younger Futhark- the Norse runes. The Othala rune had been emblazoned on the coin that had allowed them to live through possible futures far back when they had been trying to defeat the Beast, Quentin can’t believe how young he was when he thinks back to it.

There is light at the end of the tunnel and Teddy turns around, running backwards, gazing up at him a grin splitting his face- his teeth are crooked and his hair too long to be neat but not nearly long enough to tie back, he looks like a wild thing.  
“I missed you, Papa,” Teddy says, “I’ll see you soon.” And with that, he’s gone and Quentin is left standing in a vast open space. 

Despite trying, Quentin can’t see whether or not he’s out in the open or in a very large cavern- he thinks he might be able to see rock spurs behind the grey clouds, but that could just be his imagination. Still gazing up at the sky, he stumbles slightly as he turns around slowly. The tunnel he came out of stretches back into the wall of a cliff that looks strangely organic, with smooth curving lines of what is definitely granite reaching higher than he can see. Bare tree branches frame the sky in the midground. Looking down, he can see they’re a mix of blackthorn, rowan and silver birch; they’re not nearly close enough to each other to constitute a true wood but there are more of them than could be said to be a copse either. Underfoot is a thick layer of silver moss that feels better than even the thickest carpet. 

In the distance, he can see a woman wandering aimlessly between the trees, the still air carrying the sound of her humming faintly to his ears. For no reason that he can discern, Quentin has no desire to follow her or ask her any one of the hundreds of questions that had been burning within him just a moment before. What he does instead is drop down to the ground and begin to unlace his shoes. 

Divesting himself of his shoes and socks, Quentin wiggles his toes in the soft moss. He lets out a small huff of amusement at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Something within him tells him that there might be something interesting further in, so he heaves himself to his feet, dumping his hoodie with his shoes and socks, picks a direction and starts walking. 

The terrain barely changes, even when he is so far from the cliff that he can no longer see it above the trees. Small streams cross his path every so often and he takes great pleasure in splashing through them; the water is perfectly cool in some, and bath-warm in others. Small bushes grow bare of leaves but full of dark purple berries that look like blueberries but aren’t, grow every so often. Quentin’s fingers are stained purple but a tiny voice niggles at him about eating food in the underworld. But the berries are sweet and sharp and really very good, so he can’t help himself from stripping at least half of every bush he comes across. 

Something paler than the moss catches Quentin’s attention. Crouching down he can see that it is a root- hair fine and securely attached to the moss. He follows it by walking on top of it, allowing his feet to feel the tiny thing. Not too long after- well, it might well be millennia later for all that time mattered to Quentin- the root thickens to the width of his finger and he spots another in the distance. When the root becomes thick enough, he balances on it like a kid pretending to be a tightrope walker, falling off and overbalancing fairly regularly, causing him to giggle. 

Eventually, the roots reach the height of his shoulders when he’s on the ground and walking atop one is as easy as walking on a garden path. It’s then that he can start to see something rising up in the distance. Closer to- the roots are now nearly the height of the tree- he can see that it’s a throne made of the roots that he can see stretching for miles around him. 

The roots merge and pile on top of each other, and are surprisingly easy to climb, despite their smooth bark. And climb Quentin does, up and up over the roots. Sometimes he’s able to walk along one like a path, other times he has to shinn up vertical roots thicker than the biggest sequoia. Every so often he pauses to gaze out over the forest- from this height, he can even see the cliff in the distance. All at once, he realises it isn’t just a cliff, it’s a statue of a woman curled up in a ball, her back to the throne, every vertebra the size of several skyscrapers in and of itself. Quentin stares at it for a long time before he turns around to finish the climb. 

When he finally reaches the seat of the throne, Quentin can see snow drifting down over the trees, falling with the quiet only snow can achieve. It’s one of the most beautiful things Quentin has ever seen; although it is bleak and most barren, it feels more like home than Fillory ever did. 

“Pretty isn’t it?” 

In no great rush to turn around, Quentin just hums an affirmative.  
“What are you doing up so high, little magician?” The voice is childish and high with the rasp that comes from a lifetime of chain-smoking and a wheeze that speaks of decades. 

Curiously, Quentin turns to see a woman curled up in a nook in the roots that make up the right arm of the throne. One side of her face is round and bright, looking perhaps six or seven. She’s missing a couple of teeth with her middle incisor half gown slightly wonky. The other side of her face is deeply lined and soft; her eye is watery and cataract blind, her teeth are worn nubs. Despite this, her face is- not attractive, but homely and pleasant, filled with kindness. 

“Um, it felt like the right thing to do?” Quentin flounders slightly.

The woman crinkles her eyes in mirth. “Of course that would be what you would say isn’t it?” She laughs- her accent is clearly Scandinavian is some kind, dropping her book onto the ground, then joining him. She lets her feet dangle off the edge- they’re bare like his own and stick out from what once was a very beautiful ball gown from maybe the early 19th century. It had been white but was now a mottled cream, the delicate lace is full of holes and most of the beads have fallen off. Her dark hair trails down her back caught loosely into a ponytail at her shoulder blades with a frayed ribbon that was barely held together by a few stubborn threads. 

“You’re Hel,” Quentin says, thankful that in the search for the identities of the old gods he’d absorbed information on many different gods- he’d been annoyed at himself at the time, more useless facts that he could remember better than some of his first-year classes. Now though, he’s grateful. His tone is slightly confused- he thought that Hades and Persephone ran the underworld. 

“I am Hel,” She replies, tone light, “the underworld is a big place you know; too big for only two people. We get every soul from every world- some even have multiple souls you know. That’s more souls than a human mind can fathom, it would just be easiest to say an infinite number of souls.”

“And, sometimes people just like a familiar face,” She adds gently. And suddenly, her face is more familiar than his own and so achingly comforting he begins to cry. She wraps him in a tight hug, allowing him to cry out the last of his residual sorrow. When he stops crying she wipes his tears away. 

“I get quite a few of your kind. Romantic heroes worthy of the troubadours. Modern audiences don’t like it very much- loving queens from afar, desperate to protect those running headlong into danger. Such beautiful tragedies.” Hel sighs. “I don’t like tragedies.” She sounds wistful. 

“No?” Quentin asks, voice still slightly gritty. 

“No. Those who die tragic deaths often aren’t ready to rest- my cousin Thor and my auntie Freya deal with the restless dead. Save that energy up for Ragnarok. But you’re not a fighter,” Hel studies his face. 

“Not really,” Quentin agrees, looking away as if he had disappointed her- the idea makes his chest ache. 

“What do we do with you then?” Hel ponders, looking back out over the forest. 

“Do with me?” Quentin asks tentatively. He catches a glimpse of her book- Dante’s Inferno. He grins wryly at that. 

“If you were meant to be here you would have joined one of the feasts.”

“Feasts?” He asks confused.

Hel raises an eyebrow as if saying ‘exactly’. “The feasts. Look- there’s one over there.” She points a little way away from the base of the throne. 

Indeed, when Quentin looks, there’s a great plume of smoke and the sound of people laughing and whooping in delight. He must have passed right by it without even noticing. Now that he pays attention, he can see columns of different coloured smoke scattered through the woods into the distance. 

“So, do we send you to my cousin or my aunt? You would enjoy yourself with Freya I think; she tends to collect the strategists, the best commanders, fine tools, rather than the brute force my cousin likes. You’re not quite a fighter but they spend more time on pleasant discussions of strategy or playing with Freya’s cats. I have sent many of my tragic heroes to her- they’ve done rather well for themselves.” She looks encouraging. 

Quentin shifts uncomfortably, “maybe?” he hedges. 

Hel sighs. 

“I just want to go back to my friends,” Quentin mumbles, looking down at his hands. 

“I can’t do that; well, not _exactly_ ,” Hel says peeking at him mischievously.

Quentin brightens, “Really?” 

“You know, I reincarnate people rather regularly,” she is still grinning, her eyes shining. 

“I hadn’t heard that no?” Quentin offers. 

“Well, I do. _And_ I know of someone who is trying to find her way back to a world very much like Fillory, from a world which has no magic,” Her grin takes on a knowing look.  
“Would she be able to get me home?” 

“If anyone could, it would be her.” 

“What about my memories; if I am another person, how would I know where to go? What use is going back to my friends- to Elliot- if I don’t know who I am?” 

“Getting you to want to find other worlds is easy. I think that your friends are more than capable of finding a way to resort lost memories, seeing as they’ve restored shades in the past. The biggest challenge will be getting to other worlds without magic.”

Quentin doesn’t say anything. He had _died_ trying to fix magic. How could he give it up now?

“Quentin,” Hel says gently, “look at me.”

He obeys, bringing his desolate puppy eyes up to hers. 

“Magic was just another drug, it didn’t help you any more than alcohol did Eliot, heroin did Kady and power did Marina. What _can_ help is a crap-tonne of therapy and the proper combo of medication. _Why_ your Fogg decided that taking you off of it was a good idea, I’ll never know.” She rolls her eyes so hard that the one from the old side of her face pops out. She giggles, and jams it back in. 

“Quentin. Trust me, if I can make sure you want to travel to other worlds, I can make sure you want to continue pursuing therapy and medication.”

“Can’t you just get rid of my dispersion entirely?” Quentin asks, half hopeful, half wry. 

“Sorry.” She smiles sadly, “I can only plant ideas, I can’t change you completely, it’s not within my power.”

Quentin gazes back out over the horizon, considering. He sits there so long that Hel goes back to her book, although Quentin can tell that she doesn’t mind. 

When Quentin has decided, Hel has a large stack of completed books beside her. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. 

“Oh, it’s no bother- I’ve been looking for a good excuse to do some serious reading for a while- normally I’m rather busy. So, have you decided?” 

Quentin takes a deep breath, “Yes, I’ll do it.” 

“Perfect. I’ll be seeing you again, but only when you’re ready, let’s hope.” Hel stands up, offering him her hand. He takes it, and she pulls him to his feet. Instead of letting go, she pulls him in, pressing a kiss to his forehead.  
Instantly, he can feel memories shedding away from him; it feels like he’s shedding weight. It doesn’t take him long to realise that it’s literal- he’s off the ground and rising up steadily. Soon he’s stretched up into the air, only being held down by her hand on his. 

“Good luck Quentin,” Hel says softly, smiling at him out of her oh-so-beautiful face. 

When she lets go, he rises through the air exponentially quickly. 

He rises up through the clouds- now only knowing his name, the memory of roots and a woman with two faces. 

He’s on a plane filled with other souls- he only has her face in his memory now. But no one else there knows their names either. There is a stirring and two points of light brighter than anything he’s seen before- or has he? He can’t remember. He makes towards the lights. 

The lights lead him and all the others up into the dark. He’s scared but comforts the children around him who are more scared. 

There’s light up ahead. Not like the souls in front of him that burn brighter than anything- just soft light. When he’s in the light, it’s not _just_ anything. It is perfection. 

There are spectral forms trying to extinguish the bright lights, so he dives furiously at them until they leave the bright lights alone. When the spectres are gone, he rises up again, up and up into the blue sky. 

The being that had once been named Quentin Coldwater falls apart in a scatter of golden light.


End file.
